Where the Mask Speaks the Mind

There is a gentle dignity, a subtle evocative quality about this dance. It is a unique mélange of traditional martial arts, folk motifs and tales of love and pain, gleaned from the pages of Hindu mythology. It is a reminder of our glittering past and a pointer to the subtlest resonances of our art.

The Seraikella Chhau is unique in many ways, not the least of which is the eschewing of vocal accompaniment and the complete covering of the face with the mask. Yes, the mask is the essence of this exhilarating dance; it is the magic of this art.

"Where the Mask Speaks the Mind", a film by Malay Dasgupta, delves into the myriad associations of this mask. A tribute to the master mask-maker, Kanhaiyalal Maharana, this is an exploration of the meaning and structure of the mask that despite it being frozen comes to life as soon as the performer dances. His body magically seems to imbue the mask with a thousand expressions.

The maestro, Maharana who has travelled widely in India and abroad, is a mine of information and possessed of true philosophical insight. Describing the intricate process of mask-making, his comments reveal his knowledge of anatomy and physiognomy. Full of examples and analogies, he refers to Gandhi and the Buddha, trying to come to grips with what may be considered Godlike. He is a complete delight, rambling sometimes but his exhortations are replete with quotes from the scriptures and memories of a bygone era. There is a lament for the past and a sadness regarding the imperfections of modern exponents.

The royal family in Seraikella did make fundamental and aesthetic contributions to the evolution of this dance form besides, also, patronizing it. The kings and princes participated in the dance which is an exquisite coalescing of martial forms and classical motifs; intricately drawn out exercises and folk elements. The female parts were taken by the men who wore gorgeous golden gossamer sarees provided by their queens!

Bucolic settings, patches of water, verdant greenery and an arresting dance set to the strains of the flute and the rustic shehnai contribute to a near inexplicable bittersweet feeling: overwhelming and subtly melancholic. All the while Kanhaiyalal, in the twilight of his life, is profoundly analytical; at the same time, a tad wistful.

One is deeply touched by the lament for that which was here, resplendent and mesmerizing but which, perhaps, will never be the same again.